A Song of a Fisherman
South of Nan-yang, north of Yi Mountain,
The man doesn't till, the woman doesn't weave.
They cut rushes, built a hut in marsh lands;
Heaven provided fish and shrimp for them to sow and reap.
The young wife can steer the small skiff;
Black as a cormorant is their small son.
No rain this autumn, and the lake is drying up;
Large fish strand and die, loach and dace grow weak.
Buyers for the market stay away, fish are cheap as mud;
But the tax collector comers with a power that binds.
They boil him fish, serve him wine, pray he won't be angry,
And crying, to the village they go to sell their woven nets.
（William Schultz 译）